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Fond memories of a time which may have never actually existed in the first place

In the 70’s I stood baldly in revolt of the world of Love Boat, Saturday Night Fever and Roller-boogie. I was a punk rocker, and though my first musical love was soul and disco, I traded my bandana wearing, tambourine shaking heart for something of a protest against all of the things which society seemed to be offering.

What I saw, from my twelve year old eyes, was a false world of polyester wrapped hypocrites and heights of casual sex, emotionless exchange and accumulation. I suppose as I review, the truth is that I felt ugly, and stupid and unwelcome in that world. So my only response was one of bitterness. Seems natural enough, but being the person I am it wasn’t enough to simply opt out. I had to go as far in the other direction as possible.

Now I survey the social and political landscape with misty eyes and fondness for the past. The bearing of breasts, the offering of flesh, the open acceptance of altered states, spiritual seeking, and a thoughtless line of cocaine at an adult’s cocktail party. A little wife swapping, a key party, a president so universally detested that he was formally impeached.

The policy of Richard Nixon’s administration makes George W. Bush look like the fascist he is. Nixon was, by comparison, more “liberal” than Bill Clinton. Rather than spend my time in critique of a President, my thoughts naturally turn toward our society at large. I stand, as always, in critique, and opposition against the stream of life. The rising costs, the ever elusive security, stability, and even affection. I can see that my own inner defaults are as strong as they ever were. In my heart I feel a certain way, fears are forged into beliefs, and in the end I opt out. These difficulties were the same complaints facing society in the 1970’s. Reading essays and public opinion from the day sound hauntingly similar barring one thing: style. The language was pretty funny. No doubt we will look back at our own time in 20 years and laugh at the widespread use of expressions like “keeping it real,” “pimp” and “fo sheezy” with the same kind of amusement I feel when I read about a social action committee getting “together with the man” to “rap.”

It isn’t that I miss the 70’s, I am not much for the past. I don’t even miss the boobs. There are plenty of body parts hanging over the waist bands of pocketless jeans nowadays. I suppose I miss the purpose. I miss the self actualization of a person presenting themselves with thoughtful reasoning, wielding an ism in their fist as they toked the joint and felt the smoke expand in their lungs before exhaling slowly, and responding to your thoughts with sincere political interest. The idea that a woman can display herself with a degree of revolutionary exposition, or a man might question his instincts, the gender gap’s damage, and feel that if he didn’t at least strive to hear and to understand there would be no further hope of relating.

I think 25 years of revolt, abuse, apathy and cynicism is quite enough. I’m ready to read the new manifestos. I ready to raise my fist in revolt. I am ready to listen to where you’re coming from, and expect that you are too.